BOOK 3 of the ORPHIC Series
CHURLISH
/ˈCHərliSH/
marked by a lack of civility.
~~~~~
Lucille 'Lucy' Opal Baker finds herself in the 21 century sporting the title of Aunt while lugging along h...
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"It wasn't your heart's fault."
Budapest, Hungary May, 2016
LUCY AWOKE IN A CHAIR, slumped forwards with a tiredness that ached deep in her bones. There was a gun in her lap, cold, metallic and utterly dead. It was a familiar weight that didn't need much balancing. Her hand was curled around the handle and she was only relieved that she was practicing safe trigger discipline. That, however, didn't explain how she got in the chair in the first place, or why she was carrying a gun that didn't look very familiar.
She blinked blearily, her vision focusing on the room around her. A light fixture attached to the ceiling was swaying back and forth slowly, like time was ridiculously laxed for just that part of the room.
A familiar figure stood before her in the dark confines of the four walls, his back towards the door and his face so clearly recognizable. She blinked slowly as Henry smiled down at her—one of his unnerving smiles. She felt like she could reminisce about that expression; about the many times she'd seen it on his face. It was always followed by something painful, something dangerous. It wasn't a memory she liked to dwell on.
Lucy's grip on the gun in her lap tightened without permission. She had half the mind to panic when her body decided to move on her own. Her arm was raised, gun poised at his head. She stared at her arm with confusion because she was sure she hadn't lifted it. She moved her head to look at Henry, her brows furrowed.
He was closer now, towering over her with a hand curled around the barrel of the gun. She swallowed hard, looking up at him. When he started to kneel on the floor, Lucy vaguely realized she was dreaming. Because he'd never do that if this was real life–he'd never do that.
She watched him as he grabbed the barrel of the gun and pressed it against his own head. A sharp breath escaped her and she tried so hard to pull her hand away, but her arm was stuck, like it was glued in that one position.
Before she could get a word out, her finger tugged on the trigger.
The moment the bullet flew from the barrel of her gun, Lucy felt like she'd shot herself, a hand clutching to her chest, clawing at the place her heart was. Her eyes grew wide as Henry's eyes dulled and his body slumped backwards. The gun in her hand fell, clattering unceremoniously against the cold ground. It sounded more like thunder as Lucy struggled to push herself out of her seat.
Her breaths came out sharp and short as she dropped from her chair, moving with an agonizing slowness, like wading through thick rivers of mud. She kneeled besides Henry's corpse, her eyes wide with horror as the bullet hole in the center of his head bled. His eyes were so cold and empty–so dead–that Lucy couldn't stand to look at him for another second.
